


Operation: Time to Call In Another Dimension

by remaya



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Awkward Romance, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Oblivious Harry Potter, Romance, book your dentist's appointment now, but more indulgent, it's just fluff that's it, voldemort is his antisocial self
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:48:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21926209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remaya/pseuds/remaya
Summary: Fed up with their Lord’s fruitless pining, the Death Eaters call in some favors. Frodo also calls in some favors, and soon, the denizens of Middle Earth are in on plan Z: make Voldemort so jealous that he has to make a move, the elvish version.Featuring an oblivious Harry, Yuletide in the Shire, and a whole lot of fluff.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 10
Kudos: 110
Collections: Chamber of Secrets' Winter Exchange (2019)





	1. Plan Z

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DarkandChaotic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkandChaotic/gifts).



> Fia!!! You wonderful human being (and this is partially for your Sushi cat too :ghostblob:). The last time we talked, there was a lot of treacle tart involved, so here: more sweetness <3 Happy Holidays!
> 
> I still have a bit of last minute editing to do :stresscat: so the chapters are gonna trickle in over the course of the day! <3

Plan Z

* * *

“I just cannot take it any longer,” Lucius Malfoy sighs, sweeping dramatically into emergency meeting number seventy-two. He flips his hair over his shoulder, dramatically, before taking his seat at the communal table.

Severus Snape snorts, something that he would never do in the presence of his Lord. Barty Crouch Jr. muses, “If this plan fails too, then how are we going to name the next one? We are already at the last letter of the alphabet.”

“Double A, stupid,” Bellatrix Lestrange sniffs, having disapproved of Plan Z from its very beginnings.

“It’s going to work,” Severus insists. “I know it’ll work. Our Lord gets jealous easily— remember Plan J?— so with beings as gorgeous as the ones of Middle Earth admiring Potter, surely our Lord will realize that he cannot delay in his courtship any longer.”

“It’s  _ your _ plan, of course you  _ want _ it to work,” says Bellatrix, snidely. “That doesn’t make it a good plan.”

Severus drawls, “I am the youngest Potions master in history, and I deal with life-threatening stupidity every day; my plans  _ are _ good plans.”

“Like Plan J?” Barty asks, remembering the prolonged destruction that had resulted of his Lord’s rage upon learning that Potter liked Draco Malfoy’s hair.

Lucius winces at the reminder. His Lord had demanded a haircut, and Draco threw a right fit.

“Regardless of your disapproval, we will never know if the plan works if we do not  _ try _ it,” says Severus. “I drew the ritual circle below the carpet right before you all arrived. I propose we call on Frodo Baggins as soon as possible; he’ll be busy with Yule preparations, so the sooner the better.”

“I don’t like the little bugger,” says Bellatrix, pouting.

“We’ve been over this,” says Severus, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He owes me a large favor and he has connections all over Middle Earth. He’s our best choice. Now stop wasting time and  _ chant _ .”

Unwilling to deal with Severus Snape in a foul mood, the Death Eaters chant the ritual words.

* * *

“Through  _ here, _ ” Voldemort says doubtfully, staring at the portal in the wall of Severus’ living room. 

“Yes— well,” says Barty, losing his nerve, then regaining it under his fellow Death Eaters’ glares, “ _ yes _ .”

“I do not see any Yule logs, not to mention the magical kind I have been promised,” says Voldemort, suspiciously, eyeing the shifty body language of his subordinates.

“Well— there wouldn’t be Yule logs just in the open, on the street, would there be,” Barty elaborates carefully. “Not that you wouldn’t have realized that— I just mean, their culture is different, and Yule logs aren’t given for  _ free _ . But there are quite a few skilled bakers we met on that mission you assigned us last year, so surely—“

Voldemort, impatient, cuts Barty off with a raised hand. “Yes. I will find them. But if I do not find the perfect Yule log for this year’s celebrations, seeing as Harry Potter will be an honored guest this year, there will be  _ consequences. _ ”

Barty resists the urge to cower. See,  _ this _ is the problem: his Lord has been increasingly demanding lately, to the point that he irrationally wants a Yule log a  _ month _ early and doesn’t trust his Death Eaters to find one to suit his exacting tastes. After he relieves his stress with Harry, he’ll be more reasonable. Harry is usually able to calm his Lord down, except in this case, because Harry doesn’t know the problem.

“Go on, my Lord,” Barty prompts. After another suspicious glance, Voldemort steps through the portal, which slowly swirls closed behind him.

Thank Merlin. He’ll be in there a week; Harry is already visiting Middle Earth for Yule at the Shire, and Frodo has agreed to the plan.

“It’ll work,” says Snape, confidently. The rest of the Death Eaters share dubiously hopeful glances and pray.


	2. Elves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imagine Thorin Oakenshield saying the title. That’s how Voldemort feels by the end of this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: some distances are putty, for the sake of the story. And my sanity.

2 Elves

* * *

On the other side of the portal, Voldemort finds forest. He turns to glare at his minions, only to find that the portal is gone, with only tree trunks in its place.

At least the trees are aesthetically pleasing enough. The forest is distinctively golden, so it must be the famed Lothlórien, and the trees must be mallorn-trees. Voldemort casts a nifty finding spell and sets off in the direction of Caras Galadhon, the capital of the fairest realm of the elves. Since the shadow of Sauron was lifted, the ominous darkness over Middle Earth has receded; reluctantly, Voldemort feels his spirits lift as he hears the burbling of the Nimrodel, the famed stream.

He follows it for some time, absently remembering the Song of Nimrodel that he’d heard from some bard or another. He wonders where Harry is. Already in the Shire, perhaps. Every inter-dimensional portal formed in Voldemort’s world refuses to open to any point outside of Lothlórien, likely because of Galadriel’s power; but time flows more slowly in Middle Earth, so Harry has had time to travel from the portal point even though he’d only left a day and a half ago. Because of the unreliability of apparating in Middle Earth— something about the latent magic reacts with volatility to it— Voldemort must resign himself to walking.

Voldemort is on the verse “ _Her voice as falling silver fell / Into the shining pool_ ” when the elves’ patrol intercepts him, dropping suddenly from branches overhead to surround him.

“Halt, stranger,” says the elf in front of Voldemort, in the Common Speech, Westron. His hair shines golden and his features are fair. “What business have you?”

Behind the elf who has spoken, Voldemort can hear another whisper in rapid, flowing Sindarin: “ _Should we send for Haldir? He is a foreigner._ ”

“ _Well met, Galadhrim. I am Lord Voldemort of Britain,_ ” Voldemort replies in Sindarin, slightly irked. He draws his hood back from his face and twists his fingers into the formal sign of greeting. “ _I merely pass through your Golden Wood; if I am to be received, I shall not scorn the counsel of the Lady of the Light._ ”

The elf, to his credit, catches himself quickly from the shock of seeing Voldemort’s snake-like visage and hearing Voldemort’s fluent tongue. He returns the hand-sign elegantly. His voice warms. “ _Well met, Lord Voldemort of Britain. I am Rúmil of the Galadhrim. Would you accept an escort to Caras Galadhon?_ ”

“ _Yes, I will_ ,” says Voldemort. His gaze flicks to the elf who had whispered ‘ _foreigner_ ’ in the same tone as ‘ _mudblood’_ ; the elf straightens, evidently assuming that Voldemort had not heard anything.

Rúmil motions forward another elf from behind Voldemort; their identical noses, brows, and blond hair are explained when Rúmil refers to the other elf as his brother. Orophin is the brother’s name, and the two exchange a look Voldemort cannot read.

“ _I rejoice to meet you,_ ” Orophin greets Voldemort, and Voldemort blinks at the overly warm phrase.

Orophin, as Voldemort learns over the course of their day’s journey to Caras Galadhon, is a particularly ebullient elf. He does not seem at all put upon for being assigned a tedious task separate from his patrol; he speaks warmly of his home and of his brothers, of which he has two: Rúmil and the mentioned Haldir, both older than him. Voldemort lets him natter on and thinks nostalgically of Harry.

It has been some time since he last heard Harry’s voice, and Voldemort feels the absence keenly. Not just because Harry is his horcrux, but because— Voldemort has grown _fond_ of him. Had the Voldemort of a decade past seen Voldemort now, he would most certainly disapprove; not just of Harry’s company, but of Voldemort’s switch from violent takeover to (mostly) peaceful politicking.

Then again, the Voldemort of a decade past still had seven Horcruxes apart from Harry himself, and so was quite out of his mind. Voldemort would not trust his judgment. A single Horcrux in Harry is all he has nowadays, and because of Harry’s possession of the Deathly Hallows, he needs not worry for his immortality.

He worries plenty for Harry, though. Harry… Voldemort sighs.

“ _Are you well?_ ” Orophin asks.

Voldemort normally would not answer, but Orophin reminds him faintly of Harry, and that pulls a somewhat honest answer out of him. “ _I am well. A friend, however— I worry for him._ ” He glances sideways at Orophin’s concerned expression. “ _He must have arrived at Lothlórien—_ “ Voldemort calculates swiftly— _“five days ago._ ”

“ _Oh! I know of him,_ ” Orophin exclaims. “ _Hair as black as a raven’s glossy wing, and eyes as green as the finest emerald. I see why you would worry._ ” This last sentence is said with a knowing gleam in the eye, but Voldemort does not see it, distracted by the sight of the giant trees of Caras Galadhon looming around a bend in the path.

The city, elven-fair, is mystical, the more so for having been sorely missed. Voldemort does not often take vacation. For this view, though, and for the heady magic thrumming through the sweet air…

Voldemort shakes himself out of his stupor. He must acquire a Yule log and find Harry. Orophin waits for him a few paces ahead, pride and amusement playing on his face.

“ _Welcome to my city, fair above all others_ ,” says Orophin when Voldemort catches up.

“ _It is a sight for sore eyes,_ ” Voldemort admits, following the strange impulse to be honest from before. 

Orophin looks at him as they step into the mystical light of the city, onto a wider path. “ _You are familiar with our lands._ ”

“ _Passingly_ ,” says Voldemort, knowing that his fluent Sindarin shows plenty. “ _I believe you were on patrol the last time I visited.”_

“ _Shall we—_ “

“Tom!”

Voldemort whirls around. He had not dared to imagine— he gets an armful of Harry, which he would hex anybody else for, but it is _Harry_ , so Voldemort tightens his hold and leans down to say exasperatedly into Harry’s hair, “How many times must I tell you not to address me with that name?”

“None, ‘cause I’ll never listen anyway,” Harry says cheekily, and something in Voldemort relaxes from where he hadn’t known it was taut. Harry pulls away after a lingering moment, and Voldemort reluctantly lets go of his pleasing warmth.

“ _I greet you, friend,_ ” Orophin says to Harry, happily.

“ _Orophin!_ ” says Harry, just as exuberantly as he had said Voldemort’s name, and leaps into Orophin’s arms, just as he had Voldemort’s. Voldemort’s jaw clenches. The sight of _his_ Harry, embracing somebody else— it is _wrong_ , and it tries Voldemort’s limited patience. But Harry would be upset with him if he interrupted.

“Do not be tedious,” says Voldemort, reclaiming Harry as soon as he releases the bloody elf. “Where are you staying?” He derives a measure of petty satisfaction from Orophin’s confusion, as Orophin loses track of the conversation once it is in Westron. Focusing on Harry, he misses the knowing expression that flits across Orophin’s face.

“Oh— in a flet on the other side of the city. I was going to go straight for the Shire, but Snape sent a message through that said you were coming, so I waited for you! We have some time before the hobbit’s Yule celebrations start. Why _are_ you here, anyway?”

“Much may be gleaned of a culture from its celebrations,” says Voldemort, thinking of the Yule log he must find. The Shire is somewhat famous for its good food; perhaps there, Voldemort will acquire a suitable log.

“You’d better not be taking notes while we’re having fun,” Harry warns.

“Think better of me,” says Voldemort, amused. Harry gets the poutiest expression when he is offended.

“ _Follow,_ ” interrupts Orophin, in Sindarin. “ _The Lady calls. She wishes to welcome you._ ”

“ _I follow,_ ” says Voldemort. “Harry.”

“Oh— I’m coming too?” Harry knows better than to protest.

Orophin leads them through elegant pathways. Elves chitter above them in the trees. Harry waves. Voldemort does not bother. Some elves double-take upon seeing him; others remember him. He notes which of Harry’s greetings are particularly warm.

They ascend a stair that curls around the trunk of the widest tree in Caras Galadhon to arrive on a platform— a flet, where Orophin takes his leave after fondly promising Harry to be back. Celeborn is not present, but Galadriel, in her shining glory, waits for them.

Voldemort bows. “ _A star shines upon the hour of our meeting,_ ” he greets formally, and Harry’s murmur echoes him. A touch of legilimency touches Voldemort’s mind, so he strengthens his occlumency shields and straightens, meeting Galadriel’s gaze with respectful challenge.

“ _Welcome to Caras Galadhon,_ ” Galadriel says aloud. Harry stiffens in Voldemort’s peripheral vision; Voldemort wonders what she is saying to him. A shame that Harry has never grasped the mind arts’ basic concepts. “ _The Galadhrim offer you escort to Rivendell upon the dawn._ ”

Voldemort is about to refuse— he can defend himself and Harry perfectly fine, and he does not particularly like the way some of the elves have ingratiated themselves with Harry— but Harry, delighted, accepts. “ _We would be honored! Oh, but they would not continue with us to the Shire? The Yuletide would welcome them, I am sure._ ”

Orophin steps onto the flet, another elf behind him. “ _I would not continue with you, but there are some who would._ ” He steps to the side, revealing that in addition to the elf, there is— a _dwarf_. It would be unbelievable, but is no mistaking that stature, and there is only one dwarf in Middle Earth so welcome in an elvish city.

“Legolas! Gimli!” Harry exclaims, and it is then that a foreboding feeling drapes itself across Voldemort’s shoulders. This trip is going to be— troublesome.

Later that evening, Voldemort escapes Galadriel’s advice-giving by shamelessly disillusioning himself into the deepening shadows. The last time he had listened to her, he’d lost the majority of his Horcruxes. It was effective, and for the best, but _painful_ , and Voldemort needs to function tomorrow morning.

He doesn’t see Galadriel dip her head and smile.

* * *

The elves see them go when dawn passes into midday.

“We have only just returned from the Glittering Caves,” Legolas explains as they trudge through the Golden Wood, not shouldering heavy packs by virtue of the expansion charm. “It was most wondrous, tree-less as it was.”

“Aye, laddie, you should have seen it,” says Gimli. “The most beautiful stones my sight has ever had the honor to touch upon. A dwarf’s reverence would leave those caves alone.”

“To think that a dwarf’s greed may have limit!” Legolas laughs, the sound melodious. “I, for one, look forward to exploring Fangorn Forest, where there is life.”

Voldemort eyes Harry, sandwiched between the two, and his gaze darkens.

“ _Pray do not murder them,_ ” Orophin says from his right, nudging him jokingly. “ _We have journey yet. And the death of two of the Fellowship— I would not want to be the one to explain that to Elrond_.”

Voldemort tears his gaze away from the trio in front of him as Harry says, “Legolas!” in a tone so scandalized and warm that it is painful. He must be showing them his adorable pout; Voldemort does not like it.

Voldemort looks at Orophin, betraying no lightheartedness.

“ _Well, then, be that way_ ,” mutters Orophin, somewhat disturbed because he cannot tell whether Voldemort is actually seriously considering murder. They fall into a strained silence. Orophin says eventually, “ _At the very least, I hear the river Anduin ahead._ ”

“ _You do not talk much, do you?_ ” Orophin says curiously, and true to form, Voldemort does not respond. He has no need to charm this elf.

Boats, these ones lacking oars, and a few elves wait for them at the riverbank. Galadriel is among them.

“ _Live and be (to me) friends!_ ” she says as she sends them off. Unfathomably, she winks at Voldemort. Voldemort does not understand why she would; he must have imagined it.

Legolas, Gimli, and Harry keep up a casual chatter as the boats glide swiftly northwards under the guidance of Voldemort’s magic. Voldemort and Harry share a boat, and Orophin, Legolas, and Gimli share another. Although Voldemort does not capture all of Harry’s attention, he contents himself with an arm across Harry’s shoulders and Harry’s side pressing against his own. 

He does not interrupt. Harry needs his social time, after all— a strange need that Voldemort has never understood, but Voldemort has long resigned himself to providing for Harry even when he does not see the point of some things. Even when Orophin is almost— flirting with Harry— Harry does not reciprocate interest, so Voldemort settles for glaring when Harry is not looking.

With the help of magic, the boats pass Gladden Fields by afternoon and arrive at the Old Ford by the beginning of the evening.

“If only we had this magic in our boats back in the day!” Gimli remarks as they disembark. Voldemort, slightly fatigued, casts a spell that will return the boat to Caras Galadhon. The boat speeds off.

“You okay?” Harry asks, putting a hand on Voldemort’s arm, his eyes wide and caring. “I can take over the warming charms for the Misty Mountains.”

Voldemort swallows, then says, “Alright.”

Behind them, Legolas and Gimli meet Orophin’s exasperated glance, now understanding Frodo’s eagerness to help the Death Eater’s Plan Z. Watching the pair is simultaneously heartwarming and absolutely aggravating.

They draw their thick cloaks closer and embark upon the mountain pass, having rested in the boats and hoping to arrive at Imladris— Rivendell— during the night. As the sun sets, the group grows quiet. Voldemort keeps Harry under his cloak and away from the Orophin’s suggestive looks. Luckily, this seems to be effective; Orophin eases on the flirting, watching Voldemort warily, and the rest of the journey to Rivendell is uneventful.

Rivendell, unfortunately, is not the same, even though Orophin, to Voldemort’s great relief, turns back towards the mountains at the city’s edge.

They arrive late— yet there is some sort of party going on, so most of Rivendell is still awake and more than ready to receive them. This would be fine if the somewhat-drunk elves had not focused so much on _Harry_.

Harry, for his part, is delighted with the warm welcome, even though they touch him: his hair, his cheeks, his arms, his chest, back, and shoulders. Voldemort, having had a long day of non-stop traveling, is less than happy with this development. He makes this known by snarling and hexing an elf whose hand had crept dangerously near to Harry’s arse.

“ _Ai!_ ” the elf yelps in pain, jumping back and cradling her stinging appendage. Harry stops Voldemort from drawing his wand and hexing everybody with a light touch to his wrist.

“I can handle myself,” says Harry, reproachfully, “and look what you’ve done!” He then hurries over to the hurt elf and gently heals her hand, and kisses it to “make it better”. The elves titter and coo.

Feeling particularly violent, Voldemort sweeps out of the room lest he displease Harry further. He does not know what is better: knowing that Harry is being _molested_ by those pointy-eared creatures and _liking_ it, or seeing the painful proof himself as it happens.

He ends up on a balcony. In his distraction, he cannot enjoy the detailed engravings on the railing, nor the peaceful quality of the night, nor the dreamlike image of Rivendell languidly stretched out before him.

He has long known that Harry deserves better than he for a partner; he can offer much, but— Harry is kind, and he is not, and this fundamental difference will never allow Voldemort to provide Harry with what he needs: warm, sincere affection. Harry had yelled at him once, in a fit of anger, “ _obsession isn’t love, Tom!_ ” Voldemort knows this. How could he not? 

Still, he wishes that his worthless mother had not used a love potion. Perhaps then he would not have this strength-turned-weakness, this inability to provide Harry with all that he needs. At the very least, he thinks wryly, he is alive, and Harry will have his devotion if nothing else.

He will need to find a suitable partner for Harry. So far, in the Wizarding World, none have matched his standards. If he can push past his irrational feelings, those things that he should not have, then one of the elves may be a match for his beloved Horcrux.

The railing cracks under Voldemort’s fingers at the thought, and the sound startles him. When had he started gripping it so tightly? Casting a look around— nobody has seen him— Voldemort mutters, “ _reparo_.”

Perhaps not an elf. Yet— an elf would be worthy in looks, at least, for Harry. Each one possesses an inhuman grace, an otherworldly glow comparable to or even exceeding the beauty of the Veela. Harry, being beautiful himself, deserves a beautiful mate. 

Though Voldemort himself appreciates his own body, he is aware that _his_ inhuman looks, being snake-like, are not as pleasing to humans as the elves’.

“What are you doing?” Harry asks curiously, stepping out onto the balcony.

Voldemort turns to take him in. With the soft golden light from inside framing him, he looks as otherworldly as an elf. “Escaped the elves, have you?” Voldemort says, instead of answering Harry’s question.

“Well-- not _escaped_ , exactly,” says Harry, and two identical shadows materialize behind him. Voldemort resists the urge to facepalm. “These are Elladan and Elrohir. They’re very nice, and they’re showing us to our guest rooms for the night.”

Voldemort cannot completely quell his glare through the ensuing introductions. More elves. Merlin help him. They leave Voldemort and Harry to their adjacent quarters, but not before winking and reminding Harry to meet them in the courtyard tomorrow morning.

Harry turns to him, beaming, face flushed, and Voldemort schools his expression into neutrality. “New--” what’s the word-- “friends?”

“Yes, I think so,” says Harry, sounding somewhat astonished, and his grin widens. “Friends!” He throws his arms around Voldemort and squeezes tight while Voldemort’s tired brain short-circuits from the physical contact. “Thanks for not hexing everybody,” he says, his words muffled in Voldemort’s chest.

“Of course,” says Voldemort, suddenly feeling better about his self-restraint. He adds, gently, “You must sleep now,” and disentangles Harry from his person, pushes Harry into his rooms.

An image flashes into Voldemort’s head. Harry, hugging an elf-- perhaps Orophin, or Harry, being shared between the twins Elladan and Elrohir.

He scowls. He will wake early tomorrow, to ensure that whatever Harry is doing in the courtyard will not become dangerous. He does not entirely admit to himself what kind of danger he will be protecting against.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well-- i lied a bit. there's some angst oops


End file.
